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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29546658">line without a hook</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/localswordlesbian/pseuds/localswordlesbian'>localswordlesbian</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, Coma, Emotional, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, M/M, Martin Blackwood Has a Crush on Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post Season 3 Finale, Sad, Sad Ending, Tragedy, Unresolved Emotional Tension, coma!Jon, georgie and jon friendship, jon is aware during his coma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 19:55:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,020</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29546658</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/localswordlesbian/pseuds/localswordlesbian</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon craves the long stretches of his coma where he is completely unconscious, unaware of the world around him. Though sometimes, he can hear what goes on around him. Georgie and Martin visit him in the hospital, and when he can hear them he longs to return to the world of the living.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Georgie Barker &amp; Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>line without a hook</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>While he slept, Jon felt as though he was drowning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inky blackness swirled around him as he floated, untethered, through the murky waters of his mind, pressing into his chest and pushing air out of his lungs. The cold numbed his skin, freezing him in place no matter how much he strained to do so much as twitch his fingers or wiggle his toes – completely useless.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>All but brain-dead</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the doctors had said. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Completely unaware, unresponsive.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Unresponsive, but not unaware. Jon prayed and begged whoever might be out there that he could be unaware, that he could sink into blissful unconsciousness and not notice anything that went on around him until he could take part in it again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, if any gods looked upon Jonathan Sims, they were not benevolent ones.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was not aware all the time, and each time his mind surfaced he wished to shove it back under those dark, cold, unforgiving waves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was, until he heard voices.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes the voice was Georgie’s. Jon’s oldest friend, his university girlfriend turned friend, someone he’d lost touch with and reconnected with in his most desperate hour.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the voice was Georgie’s, Jon fought, desperately straining to break the surface and talk to her, squeeze her hand back when she grabbed it on the side of his hospital bed. Sometimes she lay her forehead on his arm, applying a gentle pressure that Jon couldn’t feel properly, couldn’t see, but he knew it was there. His arm would tingle, a vague aching resonating through him as he fought, screaming inside his own head to move, to let him wake up, let him talk to her, but his screams were drowned by that dark, murky ocean.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Georgie would talk to him about nothing, about everything. She told him about a new coffee shop that opened up across the street from her flat, and they had a tea that she thought Jon would love. She promised him that she would take him someday, promised to take him as soon as he woke up, as a celebration of his return.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tried to tell her that he wanted nothing more. He desperately wanted to thank her. He could do neither of those things.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She also told him about the dates she went on – useless things, one-off dates that never went anywhere, excuses to go and eat increasingly weird types of food and making sure she didn't get too lonely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I miss you,” she told him upon entering one day. Jon had been aware for several days, no respite for his tired mind, and he would have wept if he was able at the sound of her voice. “My flat isn’t the same, you know. It was fine when you left, it was nice to have my own space back. Don’t get me wrong – you were a good flatmate, even if you were on the run for murder. But now… knowing you’re not just a phone call away anymore… it hurts, Jon. I wish I knew how to help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You are helping,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he wanted to say, screamed in his own head. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You being here is helping.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Once, the voice who visited him was Melanie’s. Jon didn’t surface until she was already speaking, and Jon would have winced if he had any control over his body, her tone biting and angry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m trying, you know, I really am. I’m trying not to blame the dead guy or whatever, but it’s so hard. Tim is dead, Daisy is dead, and you’re as good as dead, but Elias is gone and some Peter guy is head of the Institute now, Martin’s reading statements, and we’re getting attacked all the time, and–” she cut off, taking a deep breath, and Jon was, for perhaps the first time in all his months without control of his body, thankful that he was not expected to respond. “He’s changed, you know. Martin. He’s working with Peter, and he’s distant and stuff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stood next to him, where he couldn’t see, maybe would never see again, staring down at his immobile corpse. “I’m sure he still misses you, though.” She barked a laugh, a laugh that dripped with bitterness and scorn, and Jon’s barely-beating heart hurt for her. “You know, I’ll never get what he sees in you. He’s been fawning over you for years, and what did you do? You spat in his face and called him useless, only giving him the decency to treat him like a human being when you had no one else left.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s not true,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jon wanted to interject. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Is it?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“He brought you tea every single day, went on and on about you while you were in America, always brought you everything you needed, and what? All you could do was bury yourself in paranoia and suspect that every one of your friends was out to get you until everyone was gone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was silence for a long time, and Jon simply listened to her breathing, holding himself at the surface, not allowing himself to slip into the ocean of blissful ignorance. He owed her this much at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d better wake up,” was the last thing she said to him before she left. “At least so I can properly kick your ass.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon sat with that for a long time, emerging from consciousness at random intervals and thinking about what she said. It was his fault, wasn’t it? He was the reason the Unknowing had gone so wrong, and what good had it done? Had it done any good at all?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hoped it had.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The final voice he heard in his months in hospital was Martin’s. Whenever he heard Martin's voice was when Jon fought the hardest to wake up, to force himself to move, to speak. Of course, he was a dead man in all but name, so he was as still as he’d always been as Martin sat by his side and talked to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One day, Martin came in and sat down next to Jon’s bed, immediately grabbing his hand and squeezing it. “Jon,” he whispered, his voice sounding so far away, as though it was echoing. It hadn’t sounded like this a few months ago, when he’d come in and held Jon’s hands gently, as though in disbelief that this was reality. Back then, he’d spoken with such sadness and despair in his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have to believe you’ll wake up, Jon,” he’d said so many times that Jon lost count, “I miss you. I miss you so much it hurts. When you were gone, after Leitner’s death, I had no idea where you were or whether you were even innocent, but I trusted you. Hell, I told you about my CV and you didn’t immediately fire me, and then we became, I don’t know, friends? Then those phone calls while you were in America–” He cut off, taking a deep and shaky breath, and Jon ached so deep he hadn’t thought it possible in a body that couldn’t move, couldn’t feel. “I knew you were there, you know? I had </span>
  <em>
    <span>hope</span>
  </em>
  <span> that you’d come back to us.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Come back to </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” He laughed. “God, how deluded do I sound? You never saw me that way, did you? Were we friends, Jon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jon wanted to insist. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We were friends. I love you, I love you, I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin sighed. “I don’t know, Jon. Elias is gone but things aren’t better. Not that I thought they would be, mind you. Seems like we’re doomed to misery.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon felt sorrow settle deep within him, as though the ocean he was submerged in were made of heartbreak and pain. He wanted to squeeze Martin’s hand, to actually be able to feel his skin against his, ached to comfort him and promise him that he’d be back, that they would go out for lunch together again, and Georgie had told him about this new coffee shop that had just opened–</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you.” Martin let out a choked laugh. “God, I have for years. I was never going to tell you, obviously, you’re my boss and I was convinced you hated me for so long, and then we started to become friends, and that was when I started to get to know you, you know? Started to actually know you as a person and not the idealized version of you I’d created in my head, that I had a crush on. And somehow, against all odds, that made me fall for you more, as soon as you’d cleared me for murder – christ, Jon, the amount of times I defended you against Tim… I wonder sometimes whether I made the right choice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know I did. I trusted you. I only regret that my last months with Tim were him not trusting me, maybe as much as he didn’t trust you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin exhaled, and Jon would have wept were he able to. As it was, he was motionless on his hospital bed, eyes closed, heart hardly beating, hardly even aware, but aware enough to feel an aching pull at his heart. “I do love you,” Martin continued. “I can’t deny it anymore, not even to myself.” He made a noise that sounded halfway between a laugh and a sob. “The perfect time to tell you, when you can’t respond. Guess it saves me the embarrassment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon wanted to scream, to reassure Martin that he felt the same way, but of course he couldn’t. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thought hopelessly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I really do love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, Martin was different. He was sadder, more withdrawn. “Jon.” He sighed. “I shouldn’t even be here, you know,” he said. Jon desperately wanted to know why he sounded so withdrawn when he hadn’t before. “It could jeopardize everything.” Martin reached out, grabbing Jon’s hand. He desperately wished he could feel it – he ached for the feeling of contact with another person, for someone to swim through the inky blackness that surrounded his consciousness and hold him, wrap him in his arms and hold him until all his broken pieces fit back together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t be able to visit again after this.” Jon felt a pain lance through his mind – Georgie didn’t visit as much anymore, Melanie had only visited the once, and now Martin would be gone – and he prayed for whoever wasn’t out there that he’d slip into blissful unconsciousness forever. “It’s too risky. I just couldn’t bear the thought of not saying goodbye. Even if you can’t even hear me,” he added ruefully. Martin squeezed his hand once before hesitantly leaning over and planting his lips to Jon’s forehead, right below where his hairline had been before the explosion had burnt it off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon imagined what it would feel like, and he wanted to smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Martin was gone, and Jon once again sunk into the ocean. The ink ate him up hungrily, not allowing him to surface. He was thankful, relieved that he wouldn’t have to lie there with any shred of consciousness as the world passed by without him in it. Ignorance was, in fact, bliss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t stir until a man came into his hospital room, telling him that he’d seen Jon in a dream. He offered his statement, a statement about death, and the manipulation of all that was alive and all that feared the end of human life. Then, he offered Jon a choice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t quite human enough to die, but too human to survive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon wasn’t even aware he’d made a choice. The voices of the man and Georgie Barker mixed in his head, his face breaking the surface, then his shoulders, a chill hitting him as he shivered, rising out of the previously inescapable ocean and exposing him once again to the world. Eyes open, all of his eyes, two physical, and infinite others invisible and filling his mind with knowledge, that ocean of unconsciousness replaced by a cruel, painful awareness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After half a year without a single shred of consciousness, air filled the Archivist’s lungs, and he was alive.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i think this is by far the saddest thing i've ever written and i'm proud of it!<br/>enjoy y'alls pining &gt;:)<br/>thank you to everyone who reads and leaves kudos and comments on my fics! i love all of you &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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